Frozen
by Leara Fiera
Summary: Stuck in 1894 after EoN:Pt2, Ashley befriends a pair of twins, the last of the sanguine vampiris. During her stay, romance blossoms and she evolves but 4 years later, something dramatic changes the setting for the trio. Ash/Helen, Ash/OCs, Tempus spoilers
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **My very first Sanctuary fic. I saw the episodes and I was completely hooked. Cried when Ashley died, so this is a possible outcome of there not being a body. I realize others have used the idea, but this is my turn on the whole time-leaping thing. There will be Helen/Ashley later, but for now, it is Ashley adjusting to her new conditions. I have done a little research but most of this is from my imagination so if it's wrong, historically or otherwise, please feel free to correct me.

As to why I changed Ashley's name slightly, I don't know. To avoid disrupting the timeline? Maybe she is too OOC and that's why. I imagine surviving the Cabal will make her another person completely with remnants of Ashley remaining. If it's too surrealistic, don't read it. But I'd appreciate reviews :D

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything except for the twins.

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><p><strong>Frozen<strong>

**Chapter 1: Dilapidated**

Smoke from the sage incense fills the dimly lit room in a dream-like atmosphere that renders strangers completely spell-bound. The logs in the fireplace cackle and spark luminously aflame, perfectly synchronized to the sage. The spartan furnished room provides and fulfills the basic needs but leaves a lot of personality to be desired in the room itself. The humidity hangs in the air like a cloak of thick velvet, almost insufferable if it had not been to the circumstances. On the small coffee table that has been pushed in-between two Victorian era wing chairs are two glasses located next to a fresh pitcher of water and two candlelights. Their purpose ultimately different, they make a nice couple. The drowsy breeze from the agape French doors offers little comfort to the uneasy temperature but for now there are other issues to attend.

The spell breaks and the enchanted half-silence evaporates as the door to the isolated flat smacks open, damaging its hinges. Neither of the recent arrivers take notice as they rush in, the youngest obviously in pain. Unceremoniously, the strongest – for now – who is supporting the weight of her companion, kicks the door closed and does not look back as she makes her way to the nearest of two very spartan cots. As careful as the situation and her delirious companion allows, she lets go of the dead weight, a nearly unconscious but very delirious woman who is clutching her arms as if they were falling off.

"Aaaagh!" the youngest hisses, not sensing the apparent need for silence. Steady but hesitant hands try to pry her hands away from the tender area, but she is met by a fierce determination and noncooperation.

"Quiet," she orders and holds the waving arms down to the obvious additional pain of her companion. Clearly that her companion had not expected as it helps her quieten. With medical training, the hooded woman inspects her patient's body.

"How do you feel?" she asks incredulously, a tone far too mature for a woman of only twenty years. The hood slides down, revealing neatly combed brunette hair that reaches her waist. Her face is filled with seriousness and observation, all attention directed unto the blonde woman.

"L-like I've- swallowed gl-ass," is the response. True to her words, the excruciating pain is much like she has shards of glass in her body, possibly having attached to her molecules during the transportation.

The brunette's frown deepens. It doesn't become her slender facial structure. Despite the brunette's ushering to keep quiet and focus on something else, as she needs her strength, the blonde begins to stutter.

"Who're you?"

"You may call me Mona," the brunette says, her focus on the invisible wounds. There is not much physically she can do, but she handles the pain with as much seriousness as if it was a fatal laceration. Her deep eyes watch the blonde with an almost animalistic attention. She is as graceful as a noblewoman and as reluctant as a young maid.

"M-Mona. My name is A–."

"I know your name. And your place in history." Mona sends her a maternal smile that renders the blonde almost calm despite the fact that she cannot be more than a few years older than her.

Mona loosens her hood and the jacket falls to the ground. From the drawer in the mahogany table she finds a dagger. Her companion sees it and winces, but Mona simply directs it toward her own wrist, her movements patient and calm, experienced. With as much ease and without hesitation, she slices open her wrist, a line of crimson decorating her otherwise pale skin.

"My blood holds proteins that will help you heal. Your own system is far too weak to repair the electromagnetic damage. You have not recovered yet," Mona tells her calmly as if she was explaining how to start a fire.

"Where are we?" the blonde asks, her eyes hostile as Mona transfers the blood to a primitive IV attached to her. Curiosity and defiance take the better of her. "And did you say electromagnetic? Like, EM shield?"

Mona nods. "You will remember in due time, Ashlynn."

The blonde's eyes widen. "My name is not–."

"–now it is." Mona's tone has turned deadly and chilly while her posture is still motherly and compassionate. Ashley has only heard that edge before from beings able to kill mercilessly, their consciences spotted forever with the loss of innocence. She has heard it from the lips of her own father. That dark flash in a pair of lucid eyes. The murderous edge.

So she keeps silent, afraid of a treatment rivaling that of Cabal.

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><p>She spends nearly a month slipping in and out of consciousness. Her memories grows blurry and fuzzy and she has trouble keeping up with the days. Whenever she surfaces lucidity, she senses people watching her but is disrupted by violent seizures that renders her powerless. Most of the time she is in a nightmarish, dream-like state that is eternally foggy. She allows herself to be taken in, sleepless and drugged. She recalls memories of what cannot be true. And worse, she starts to remember the things she has done to her own kind.<p>

When she first awakens, it is from a terrifying memory of herself looking down upon her mother, who admits to being afraid of her. She has never seen her mother cry, so she has a hard time blaming it unto her imagination conjuring up images and scenarios.

Mona acts as a nurse, simply being there and changing sheets, IVs and watching over her as if she is family.

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><p>She quickly accepts this new name – at her last place of capture, she didn't get to have one – as it resembles her own. Ashley. Ashlynn. It sounds too feminine, yet also marks the changing of herself. She is no longer the sassy and badly contained child of a respectable member of the Sanctuary but far too familiar with her own cause of destruction – a path hopefully behind her. She is afraid to think of it, afraid to act upon impulse and instincts because she fears they aren't her own anymore. In staying still and obedient she remains lucid and in control on her own mind. Trustful she has never been, so she watches everything her hostess does.<p>

The small flat – yes, they are in England – is equipped with three bedrooms, private quarters as Mona calls them, and a small bathroom with a lion-legged tub along with dining quarters and a lounge combined with a small, exquisite library.

The curtains are kept constantly closed except in the night where it is often agape. Ashlynn often wonders why Mona brought her to the cots on her first night here after her agonizing teleportation, but has enjoyed the bed at her service.

Mona has forbidden her to go outside and heavily advised against teleporting. The mere fact that she knows about the unusual way of transportation is mesmerizing. Even though Ashlynn is as straight as they come, she has noted Mona's beauty. It is not overwhelming, but it is there, reluctantly hidden behind … well, reluctance. Her skin tone is golden and almost flawless, no scars or imperfections present. She is not tall nor petite, standing five-foot-seven with an almost aristocratic gracefulness. At all times her hair is straight, falling in a weightless curtain of deep ash-brown strands. She moves in and out of the shadows with skill, ease and comfortability like no-one else Ashlynn has ever encountered. She seems timeless and yet older than her mother who has lived for more than two lifetimes. Her eyes are the impossible color of frozen blueberries, an eternal darkness, calm and beautiful behind them.

"Mona, where are we?" Ashlynn asks one day out of the blue. Mona's body does not stiffen as she had expected. The stale air tells a different story.

"Ten miles from London," Mona says and pauses. "1894, to be precise."

Ashlynn chokes undignified on the cup of tea she is sipping. The calm surface reminds her of her own mother. The last memory she has of her is the horror-filled expression of realization. It violates the happier memories of Sanctuary times.

"Eighteen hundred ninety-four?" she repeats, horrified. "Impossible," she mutters under her breath.

"No, not at all, I fear. Your extraordinary – in comparison to humans, that is – ability to morph through space has made you capable of leaping through time as well. Not unheard of in the society of the _sanguine vampiris_."

"Vampire?" Ashlynn repeats dumbfounded. She remembers vaguely the intimate details of Nikola Tesla and his dramatic reaction to the source blood. The vampires – the true ones – are extinct in her timeline. But this is, as Mona kindly informed her, 1894. She wonders where her mother is now. This version, of course.

"Yes, I am a vampire," Mona confirms quietly, her hands handling the medical equipment as if what she just said is perfectly reasonable. "So is my brother."

"Darian's a vampire?" Ashlynn exclaims in the way only a teenager raised in the twenty-first century can. Or the twentieth for that matter.

The adequately handsome twin brother of Mona has been wary of approaching her, but she has noticed him and the way he sticks to the dark corners of the flat when he is here. Shyness is a family trait, apparently. The fact that he has not directly contacted her or introduced himself tells Ashlynn of his apparent disapproval of Mona taking in pensioners.

Mona nods. "We are the last of our family. Our father was killed less than a decade ago by ignorant humans." Although she says this with the sheerest politeness, it is clear the way she flinches at the word 'humans'. Ashlynn understands why vampires would be compelled to feel detestation towards human; in a century, there won't be any left of their race. They will be extinct.

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><p>This is unbeta-ed, but whatever. If you can stand to read it, continue. English is not my first language. <strong>Can anyone guess why its title is "Frozen"?<strong>

****_- Leara._


	2. Chapter 2

**Frozen**

**Chapter 2: Adjustability**

When Ashlynn recovers, and is allowed passage through town – though only accompanied by either Mona or Darian because of her less than perfect manners – it becomes clear to her how the town society looks at the twins.

"I hate this dress," she whispers into Darian one day they are walking down the street, Ashlynn snuggling into the male vampire as appropriately to point out his status as protector. Ashlynn has discovered how distressful the 1890s are. She cannot believe her mother once fitted into such society, but it does explain why John Druitt called her ill-mannered.

The dress Mona has sewn for her is complete with a strangling corset that left Ashlynn struggling to breathe. Ashlynn is convinced that the first time she wore it had been a life or death experience, but has slowly grown used to breathing in it and keeping her mouth shut, opinions unsaid. Mona and Darian had found it greatly amusing.

The narrow sloping shoulders and pointed waist have been everything Ashlynn has agreed to wear. She has insisted on rather slim skirt that despite her protests are far too pompous for her liking, and men's shoes. Those frilly, over-decorated ones she has outright refused to be seen in.

"I cannot conceive how you would fit into any society, irrelevant of time, Miss Ashlynn," Darian says, leaning in to whisper. Their proximity is far from Ashlynn's likings, but fits this era. It has taken her a week to be allowed in public after lessons of appropriate manner and stature from Mona. She is illy prepared for it despite her mother's upbringing. She wishes she would have listened then.

"Are you saying this looks comfortable?" she hisses, tightening her hold of his arm. The corset is a torturous device she would not wish on her worst enemy. Well, maybe Dana Whitcomb.

Darian gives the slightest of smirks. "No, but you do look lovely, despite your attempts not to," he points out. Flabbergasted and barely remembering to keep her mouth closed, Ashlynn actually blushes slightly. She can stand being insulted and whistled after in the 2000s, but being subtly complimented? Not so much.

Ashlynn is getting used to the unclean air the town provides. The stench was nearly suffocating after her quarantine period, and she was close to fainting, but breathing in a corset in a foul-smelling place is a nearly impossible task – one she wants to overcome to prove herself. She has also had to improve her vocabulary enormously, earning grim glares from either twin when she doesn't.

"Where are we going?" she asks curiously. The sun shines faultlessly and it is a nice spring day. The details that pop up once you overcome the foulness of the 1890s are extraordinary.

"It is a surprise, dear," Darian says. It is past noon, and he is more often than not her chaperone. People in town look sideways to Mona for some reason. Darian is similar in looks, so it must be her behavior. Strange is not appreciated, which is why Ashlynn struggles.

"Remember we have also been forced to accommodate ourselves, Ashlynn. The society we belong to was destroyed and belonging here is greatly disappointing. Primitive, even," he scoffs.

"So much changes in a century, I suppose," Ashlynn murmurs. "For this society, I mean. I know that scientists still think greatly of the vampiric era." Then she smiles, thinking of Tesla and his many attempts to bring back the _sanguine vampiris_.

"What are you thinking about?" Darian asks innocently, genuinely curious.

Ashlynn stares into a patient pair of blueberries awaiting answer to her pleasant behavior. She decides that what she tells him will perhaps ease their difficult relationship.

"The scientist in mind is a friend of my mom, mother, I mean. He is rather.. persistent in his pursuit of what he decides important," Ashlynn says, choosing her words carefully with Tesla in mind.

"You are picking up an accent," he notes, smiling too. Everything he does seem to be with less enthusiasm than humans. She has discovered that it is both because of the era and his vampiric traits. She thinks it is cute, but also that her actions have a tendencies of bringing out smiles in him.

"Really?" she says, intentionally smearing the one world with a British accent. "I survived twenty-three years with my mother's accent, only to pick one up a month in the Victorian era with two.. nocturnal personas," she says, a glint in her eye before continuing, ".. with none at all."

"You speak fondly of your mother," Darian points out as they walk into a small park with both riding trails and walking paths. An insignificant detail that is noted by Ashlynn with no purpose. Either way, she stores it in memory.

"Yes," Ashlynn sighs, grief-bound. "I miss her. I don't know if I can return or if.. or if she'll want me to," she reveals, guiltily and tear-stricken.

"Miss Ashlynn, I didn't mean to pry. You have my sincerest apologies. That said, I cannot envision your mother not wanting to see you. From what I've gathered, you are an intelligent, beautiful woman with a good heart," he spoils.

"Gee, Darian," is all Ashlynn can say sarcastically, momentarily forgetting her manners. It is her only way to deflect his positive compliments. "Besides, you don't know what happened."

This only seems to ignite his curiosity. "I am a vampire, do you not remember? I have done things most humans do not approve of. When they cannot accept certain aspects of their own society, how would they acknowledge mine? We are hunted down like beasts, not intelligent beings."

The stress on the word "we" – or lack of it – tells a story. While Darian is nefarious in the most alluring way, he has always, or as long as she has been with him, excluded Ashlynn in his pronouns. We meaning vampires. Ashlynn knows her DNA is as altered so it wouldn't be mad to consider her their kind even when he knows differently. She is growing on him.

"How long before you must leave?" Ashlynn asks somewhat saddened by the thought.

"Even without hunting, we cannot stay in one place too long. In this era, aging comes quickly. But due to the eccentric ways of my sister, we must not stay long. I expect you to come with us," he says, blunter than he has been in days. His blueberry eyes are expectant.

Why shouldn't she? They are all she knows, and they share a secret. She cannot escape time, and it is prosperous to hope that she will be able to 'timeport' soon. She still has headaches, but it fits with the general excuse of women's discomfort.

"As much as I hate to admit I like your company, I accept. Graciously, in fact," Ashlynn says, a mischievous spark in her eyes. She longs to run and be free. Wild. This era is so constrictive. As if reading her mind, Darian laughs.

"I sense your discomfort. Lucia also finds the dresses and expectations rather restricting," Darian muses, his eyes darkening with amusement. His hair is a nimbus of black, arranged in a typical Victorian style – for men, that is.

"Lucia?" Ashlynn asks, confused.

"Why she has chosen to go by a different name is completely a mystery to me, but I do admire her choice," Darian says, leaving her to puzzle the pieces together.

"Mona?" Ashlynn guesses, disbelief in her voice.

"Yes," her companion states, taking in the lovely view around them. "Our mother's name. You would have disliked her immensely. She was quiet, a shy beauty."

Feeling insulted, Ashlynn protests. "Are you saying I am dislikable?"

"No, not at all. I myself often thought that my mother did things a very subtle way. She didn't raise her voice or her opinions. She spent a life regretting her silence because of her timidness."

His voice is simple but even Ashlynn can see the grief in his eyes, the slight change of tone when he talks about his mother. The twins are utterly alone without their parents despite having lived for centuries. She wants to ask when and how she died, but finds the question too personal, too imposing.

"My condolences," she offers.

For a while, they sit in silence, and Ashlynn studies the small wonders of this outlandish era though she will never admit it. She is more a act-before-thinking girl but the Cabal affair has changed the way she lives. She now understands – now where she has seen what her powers and rash actions are capable of destroying – why both Darian and Mona/Lucia are as shy and reluctant. Reserved in Lucia's case. In a society where men are often more appreciated and respected, it is not surprising that Darian fits better in than his sister.

She plays with her hair, still adapting to the abrupt withdrawal to a straightening iron. For as long as Ashlynn remembers, she has straightened her hair to evaporate every similarity to her mother. To individualize herself. Now the blonde hair curls in ringlets, styled by Lucia. Ashlynn cannot believe the amount of time spent on dressing and getting ready alone. If she ever comes back to the twenty-first century, she will not hear any complaints. The mere thought hits like a pang of guilt. It makes her twitch ever-so slightly.

She fumbles with her fingers in her lap, laughing mentally at the vision. Here she is, playing along society's rules in a olive-green Victorian dress with a crimson panel and wearing Victorian undergarments, for God's sake! A true Magnus.

"You seem tense," Darian notes and Ashlynn recognizes the amazing ability James Watson inherited from the source blood. Darian has a darker edge to him, though; he is also younger and so far, without weaknesses. Then again, threat assessment has always been her weakest point.

She sends him a dirty look to which he smirks. "Do not gaze at me in that manner, Miss Ashlynn, it suggests harlotry. Subtlety, please."

Yes, Nikola Tesla sure is somewhat related to this vampire. Ashlynn wasn't aware overconfidence was genetically inheritable until now. Even though she cannot help but smile at the small similarities between the handsome Victorian-era vampire and the inventor of alternative current. Yeah, she looked that up when her mother mentioned it a while after Rome. It seems like ages ago now even though there is ages to it becomes that moment again. Sad thing is, if she doesn't find a way to teleport through time again, she will likely die before she can relive her life. She is still not certain about what the genetic therapy and treatments of the Cabal along with the factor of source blood have done to her on a molecular level.

"I worry, Darian," she admits, staring at the gravel path they have arrived though. The iron bench is uncomfortable, but it provides a great view of the more calm side of the town, one untainted by the foul smell and busy life. It reminds her of the parks back home.

"What for, if I may ask?" Darian inquires politely, studying her. The tip of his nose is in the direction and she is certain she has his sole attention. Something she is not that used to, despite being the object of interest for the Cabal and the Sanctuaries before she ended up here.

She looks around, checking for eavesdroppers. "I worry for being stuck in this time. Not to be insensitive, but I do not adjust well. I mean, these corny phrases and dresses and ugh! I don't belong here, and even I can see it!"

Darian simply looks at her and does well not answering.

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><p>In the following days, Ashlynn sees very little to the male twin. She spends time with Lucia, spring cleaning with the maid, Colette, and somehow Darian is always gone before she rises, mainly due to the ridiculous time spent getting ready for a female, and goes to bed after her. When she insinuates that her brother might be spending time with more entertaining matters, Lucia scoffs and simply states that humans do not interest Darian, as he once fraternized with full-blooded vampires and therefore thinks lesser of the human race.<p>

By day three, she even declares herself missing his presence. If not for conversations, he is easy on the eyes. She does, however, notice that the curtains are set aside more frequently to her pleasure. The sun makes her skin tingle and it helps her urges to go hunt something. Darian's absence also means that she one day is urged to go alone, even though Lucia is reluctant.

"Remember the etiquette I taught you," the long-haired vampiress orders her, nervous like a mother though she doesn't have the age to pull it off. "And do not ruffle your dress. Remember your carriage of yourself, and do not speak unless you can think up a proper phrase, Ashlynn."

"Coin phrases, yeah, check," Ashlynn says, more to assure her roommate. Whatever the Cabal has done – causing her one month of suffering through withdrawals – it has made her memory flawless.

She is wearing a rouge – she refuses to admit to wearing actual pink, and Lucia insist that it is _raspberry rose_ – dress with soft silver swirling patterns on the hooped skirt and the torso part, which they insist on calling the bodice, which is then covered in an equally tight fabric. Ashlynn's short intake of breath does nothing to convince Lucia of the fact she cannot breathe in even the more leisurely fit dresses. Lucia insists on dressing Ashlynn herself, which includes tightening the corset, because she is certain that Ashlynn will mutter very un-ladylike profanities or risk saying something she shouldn't to a chambermaid. She also forces Ashlynn to wear a pair of overdecorated shoes, claiming that if she cannot find a way home, she better accommodate herself to the style and trends of this era. The gown has far too much lace for Ashlynn's liking, though, but she has stopped expressing her personal opinion on the gowns Lucia finances for her. The seamstress is nice, though, and the gowns beautiful, she must admit. It does, however, lack the bad-ass vibe. Her blonde hair hang in ringlets, even though she only allows two bangs, one on each side, to be free, the rest pinned to her scalp. The sleeves of her dress are utterly impractical, but when she complained, Lucia said she could muck out the stables if she felt so.

So, here she is, walking gracefully down the street with as much feminine frailness as she can manage, blinking away tears from the tight corset. How did her mother ever survive? She is certain she would have several bruised ribs, had it not been to her inhuman healing factor.

Several gentlemen take notice of her, offering to accompany her to the destination of her travel. When she politely almost declines, they do not seem to grasp it, so she allows herself to be followed to the park a few times.

A particular gent, Mr. Wesley Kingston, is so naively innocent that Ashlynn lets him walk her twice, as he is lost in her "beauty", or so he claims. It is midday, so she feels more safe than she would do during the night, despite the fact she can take care of herself. An afternoon pass, and when the subject is accidentally turned unto the case of Jack the Ripper, Wesley tries to turn her morbid attention away, but she is interested in whether or not it was her father responsible. She does not doubt it, but she feels bad, thinking about the last time she saw him. He was cutting her into half, slicing her with swords, but she saw the pain in his eyes. And, seeing as she was no better herself, she can relate to it.

"Miss Ashlynn, you should not bother your head with such gruesomeness. Please, can I follow you to your door rather than think of the brutality of London on such a lovely afternoon in your company," the well-worded young man offers.

"Well enough," Ashlynn says, biting back the 'alright'. Then he escorts her to her door, or rather, the door of the DeGrasses.

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><p>That same evening, Darian arrives, somewhat distraught. Mona sends him a quizzical expression followed by sadness. "I see."<p>

"How –?" Ashlynn says, confused by his lack of words.

Before Mona can correct her less than appropriate way of expressing her confusion, a throat is cleared behind them. Mona and Ashlynn turn around synchronically.

"Sister," Darian says, then sends the blonde a look, "Ashlynn. I have news from town. We must leave. They suspect," he simply says, and Ashlynn understands. Devastated, Ashlynn goes to her room and packs the required personal items – most of her luggage are dresses and wear, since what she arrived in has been burned. The very same night a carriage arrives to bring them to another town. Lucia and Darian act as if they have done this before; painful memories overwhelm Ashlynn. Was it this way her mother felt when she and the rest of the super-abnormals terrorized the Sanctuary Network?

A single tear slides down her cheek, which she quickly removes with the back of her hand instead of wiping it away with her handkerchief. While servants load their luggage and Lucia arranges for the flat to be relieved of its lease, Ashlynn finds herself lost, admiring the grand horses that neigh in the night. Darian comes up from behind, putting a mantle around her shoulders for more than physical comfort. He stands silently beside her before speaking.

"They are gentle creatures, are they not?" he asks conversationally.

Ashlynn gives the two horses a quick look-over. She has never been able to tell a creature's intentions, not a horse at least, but there is appreciation and kindness into the large orbs of the working animal. One of them is bay with a strictly cut mane and tail, the other slightly smaller and more timid than its phlegmatic partner but with a beautiful buckskin color normally native to mustangs and America.

"Looks can be deceiving," she decides. "They can be cunning, I suppose."

Darian chuckles. "I agree, but they are inseparable either way. Him on the left I have bought from the cavalry, the other? She is the only one he allows to be close to, and the other way around."

"They're yours?" Ashlynn says, but regrets her foolish statements. Still stuck in the twenty-first century, it just surprises her that he would own a horse, let alone two.

"I can teach you to ride if you wish to learn. You look at them, equally frightened and equally drawn in," Darian assesses.

She pets the horse on the nose bone, somewhat surprised when he leans into the touch. The bay horse sighs subtly. She giggles like a child. "I think I'd like that."

"I am sorry for my absence these days, Ashlynn. I did not mean for it to be any indication that I felt uncomfortable in your presence. I..," he seems at loss for words, ".. I allowed myself to be carried away by this information," Darian apologizes.

"You don't have to say you're sorry, Darian. After all, the intel was right, they're after us, and by association, me," Ashlynn responds, and allows him to escort her into the carriage. It is black and very dark, noir in theme and it matches the dark streets that go on for miles.

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><p><em>AN: Adjust. Verb. Alter or move (something) slightly in order to achieve the desired fit, appearance, or result. _


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **It may seem a little out of place, but I felt the second part of this chapter belonged. As you may have noticed, there is much Darian/Ashley going on. I just like to play around with her, because as far as I seem to recall, there has been almost no canonical romantic history of Ashley Magnus. Not except for a jokily comment in "Sanctuary for All: Part 2" (I think). I imagine him as mystery impersonated. However, I will try to shed some light unto Lucia as well.

As to this chapter, I realize there's a lot of horse terminologies in it. I am an equestrian but I have never explained it in English, so I have tried to do my best. If you google it and it doesn't make sense at all, I have failed. I'll try to imagine the best way possible, thinking that it should both be of the era and the advanced knowledge Darian may have.

**Onthecoast6:** Very well. The Within Temptation song "Frozen" was what inspired the story, as it was what I was listening to non-stop. Maybe I am biased and reading into something that's not there, but try to read the lyrics with Ashley in mind. Also, it is an important fact to keep in mind that Ashley was frozen (embryo) for hundred years. Despite medical genius, it must've affected her somehow. I am trying to braid that into the storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of Sanctuary. I have conjured up the twins and Mr Wesley Kingston, but that's all I can take credit for, and legally, probably not even that. Either way, don't own 'em, can't claim any rights.

* * *

><p><strong>Frozen<strong>

**Chapter 3: Enlightenment**

"Telepathy? You _must _be kidding me!" Ashley says exasperated. Eyes wide, she cannot believe what Lucia is saying. It is a lazy afternoon, typical to the countryside where they have settled themselves after the town life became a little too intense. The country estate is large enough to house a family of seven, and is placed in a hillside landscape with a somewhat isolated forest nearby, allowing great hunting grounds and trail rides. The setting is very peaceful and more importantly, Ashlynn does not have to dress up as much, now only dressing in two layers instead of the five in town, embroidery unneeded.

The grounds stretch across acres of land, which has prompted for the lessons of vampiric skills that Lucia sees fit. Because the vampires are so misplaced in time, Lucia has convinced Ashlynn to tell her of the Cabal and the skills she possessed when she was under their influence. She no longer have the same control, which is why Lucia has cleared the area in the middle of the sun parlor, pushed the furniture aside with her extreme strength, and has begun to tell her of the surrounding powers.

"I am a telepathic, Ashlynn," Lucia repeats, quite seriously. The huge grin on Ashlynn's face dims as the message seeps through.

"Seriously? What am I thinking, then?" Her disbelief is proven wrong when Lucia answers her question, correct verbatim, and Ashlynn goes more pale than healthy.

"My telepathy extends to everyone, few excluded, but I can always communicate with Darian this way, and him with I," Lucia informs her, preparing a work space with her gentle, methodic hands.

"Darian is a telepath, too?" Ashlynn exclaims, blushing. Some of the things she has thought about when he has been nearby. Embarrassing is an understatement.

"No," the dark-haired vampire says. "My brother can only read my mind, not the ones of others. Our link is tied to our duality, possibly prompted by our twin birth."

Ashlynn can nearly feel her brain trying to reject the message, but blames it on being separated from the Sanctuaries for too long. This brings along the intense feeling of homesickness. She has been getting it in waves since they relocated to the country estate. The whole situation is going from temporary to a more permanent state with the _sanguine vampiris _twins. While some of the more enjoyable sides of the Victorian era are becoming more clear to Ashlynn, it is obvious that she does not belong here, to herself at least, despite her attempts to act proper like a virtuous damsel in distress. Courtesies and keeping her ill manners from resurfacing whenever she is treated like thin air. She has discovered first-hand the evolution of women's rights the past hundred years. And she misses modern technology terribly, not to mention her contacts, her bike and her guns. But _no, that's not proper! _She is considering killing herself just thinking of being called a lady once more. She has tried her whole life to avoid being one, instead taking on the world with a badass persona rivaled only by her parents'. As much as she likes to think it, she is not even in the same scale as her teleporting father or her ceaseless mother, renowned and respected worldwide. Feared is more Ashlynn's department. By now she must have overruled her parents in _that_, by the help of Cabal, if her memories are to be trusted. She still has both nightmares and shivers.

"What happened, from what you are telling me, was that you were destroyed on a molecular level by an electromagnetic shield that covered this place of sanctuary," Lucia repeats to make sure she has understood correctly.

"Basically, yeah," Ashlynn fibs. She feels like she has revealed enough information on the Sanctuaries for a lifetime to the Cabal and further exploration down her cerebrum.

Lucia quirks an eyebrow but doesn't ask. "And when you arrived here, it set loose a chain reaction of severe pain."

Ashlynn recalls the month with ease and nods, swallowing nervously. She brushes her dress fidgeting, smoothing the loose, powder-blue skirt and the chemise-like upper part. She has kicked off her shoes. The tiles of the sun parlor are warmed by the sun and allows a much freer attitude. It also reminds her of home.

"I think it has altered your powers of teleportation. Not erased, but to balance the major damage, your already genetically altered genes. To reassert itself, it managed to spray your molecules even farther than before before reasserting. It means that teleporting will be painful before you gain full control."

"I _had _control before this happened," Ashlynn points out defensively.

"While under the influence of mind-controlling substances. I will hardly call that proof. Traveling through time seems to have severed all contact to this Cabal organization, which will mean that you need to rediscover every ounce of control you've ever experienced. But, to be honest, I think that most of these powers had manifested before, just blossomed under the source blood, as you put it," Lucia says somewhat skeptically.

"True blood of sanguine vampiris," Ashlynn admits. "And it wasn't theirs to take. They.. forced me somehow even though I was there for less than a day."

"Remarkable medical studies in this era of yours," Lucia notes, then proceeds to frown, lost in thought. Ashlynn notices she has adopted some of Ashlynn's use of the language.

"So, give it a try?" the blonde asks nervously, remembering all too severely the constant pain it brought to leap through time and an EM shield.

"Let me create a counter agent for tomorrow, to help you relax. I wish to see this without influential sedatives."

Ashlynn takes a deep breath and focuses on the spot in front of her. She already knows the when – July 1894 – and the where, but the how is so much more. She doesn't remember how she managed to do it with the Cabal's orders. The way they took a choice away from her also eliminated any doubts of the destination.

She feels the pain before she sees the swirl around her. It overwhelms her and almost makes her stop but the nausea and shivers fuel her as a vessel for the scream that empowers her enough to make the teleportation. Dizzy and disorientated, she appears and a moment passes before she feels as if shards are cutting through every atom of her body. She falls unto her knees, screaming in pain. Lucia rushes to her side and Darian appears at the door, frantic, and offers his help as the pain subsides.

Feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden, Ashlynn keeps her arms at full length to stop them both from getting too close. The room is still spinning and the pain is not over. Nausea rises in her throat but she keeps it at bay, trying to refocus but failing miserably.

"Stay.. away!" she says and feels her talons shoot out from her nails, tearing the skin on her fingertips. Lucia and Darian stand back, following her orders, wide expressions of surprise and intrigue on their faces. Darian looks arrogantly smirking, Lucia on the other side seems stunned by this new discovery. Slowly, the pain lessens.

"Ashlynn, are you well?" Lucia is the one to ask, offering to help her to the nearby cot that has the sole purpose of recovery.

"Yeah," she replies, hoarse as ever. Her bones crack in her body without injury and she rises herself from the floor slowly, trying her best not to ruffle the gown. Smiling weakly to the twins, and seeing the dark expression upon Darian's face, she frowns.

"It's not as bad as it was the first time. Probably because I stayed here," she explains, recalling traveling through time and the following agony.

The twins exchange meaningful gazes. "I think you are right, sister," Darian says out of the blue without context. Ashlynn sends Lucia a bewildered expression.

_**What my brother means, Ashlynn, is that your gene therapy makes you a suitable substitute for the sanguine vampiris**_, Lucia's voice says in her head. It is not intrusive but Ashlynn finds herself feeling weirdly invaded.

"I can take you on a trail ride this afternoon, if you are done here," Darian offers, his expression genuine. His dark, curly hair makes him look like an Italian version of a stableboy. A very handsome one with eyes of blueberries and wearing dark riding breeches. Forever in the appearance of a young man of twenty-two years, Darian looks a little older than his frail sister though they are both capable of horrors. His chest is muscular and toned, the sun having granted him a golden color that outlines his natural beauty and the finesse of being a vampire. Ashlynn suspects that vampires are much like vine – the older the more rich in flavor and looks, in Darian's case – but thoughtlessly finds herself staring at the male vampire, taking in the quite extraordinary view of his open shirt.

She swallows, finding the words only nanoseconds before speaking. "Yeah, I'll go."

Behind her, Lucia raises a sardonic brow but keeps silent, beginning to refurnish the room in case someone may come for a visit. Fairly isolated, it can still happen and for all intents and purposes, the trio is keeping up appearances.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes after (Ashlynn's corset was messed up by the teleportation), and a change of clothes later, they meet up in front of the stables. It is not much, merely six horse boxes and a small, off-site manure. Ashlynn remembers riding from her childhood. Or, it was more like watching her mother and James Watson mount separate horses while she was left to stare at them wide-eyed, being considered too young to go horse riding. By the time she had grown to the proper size, they had left England and she never expressed any enthusiasm to learn.<p>

She had partially forgotten about Darian's offer, believing it to be out of sympathy for abruptly leaving the time just as she was getting to know the squares and customs. While she has adapted into the new setting – and the overdressing – she still finds it humiliatingly primitive without a faster means of transportation than _a horse_.

"Have you ridden before?" Darian asks as they walk to the stables. They pass the carriage they arrived in, which, without its horses and task, is displeasingly disappointing. It is parked in a roofed area. Sorta like a garage.

"No, not a horse, at least," Ashlynn says before she can stop herself. In a time where automobiles are rare, the thought of a motorbike – and her riding it – must be concerning.

"Then you are in for a surprise," he smirks cryptically, grabbing the brushes by the entrance of the stable. Ashlynn frowns, but follows, half expecting to see a stableboy (or girl for that matter) rush to their side. In the town children were always eager to please the twins.

"Isolation has its perks and privileges," he explains, opening the door into the box of the very same cavalry horse that brought them to the country estate. He is eating now, and Darian starts brushing the mud off his coat as he speaks. "But it also requires the extra load of work. Not that I complain," he quickly adds, sending her a luminous smile. "With your experiments of teleportation, it is difficult to employ personnel."

"I can imagine," Ashlynn says with a smile, grabbing a brush herself. "Which one do I take?" she asks, indicating to the horse next to the one he is brushing. It is the buckskin one, slightly less nervous now where it is safe in its horse box. Darian's eyes widen in amusement and challenge.

"Down the rear there's a black one. He's new, but the horse trader swore he was as kind as a summer breeze," the vampire says, "but I can brush him if you don't wish to."

"That little fella? Please, I've handled larger beasts in my sleep," Ashlynn says arrogantly, walking to the black horse. It is perhaps fifteen hands in size, its body built like an athlete. His head jumps curiously up as he hears her come.

"Show him you're not dangerous," Darian calls out kindly from his horse box. Ashlynn bursts into laughter.

"Said one vampire to the other," she points out, feeling quite invincible without her many layers of dresses. The fact that she is not wearing a corset is a feeling of freedom she has been missing. Even in the stables, the air seems fresher somehow.

After almost no incidents (Ashlynn's horse skedaddled once, when she wasn't looking, and headed directly for the oats), Darian shows her how to put saddle and bridle on. The cold metal bit seems a bit harsh, but Ashlynn reminds herself how many times she has used the _shoot first, ask later_ approach herself.

"What's their names?" she inquires curiously, finding the silence a bit too much.

"The black one is called Sam," Darian replies simply as he makes sure the girth is tight enough. Ashlynn is holding on to the reins of the black gelding – Sam – and nuzzling his forelock in the meantime.

"Yours doesn't have a name?" she pouts, almost disappointed. She looks at the bay horse once and decides that calling him the Cavalry Horse won't cut it. He is ridable, friendly and able to pull a carriage. "I'll call him Mohawk," she reasons, gesturing towards his mane.

Darian smiles amused but says nothing. He adjusts Mohawk's headgear and tells her to meet him in front of the stable. Ashlynn follows, making sure Mohawk's hind legs are not too close in proximity to her and Sam's head.

Getting up is a different story and far less elegant than in the movies. During her second attempt to mount the horse by the stirrup, Ashlynn almost falls down on the other side but manages to stop the motion before she stands by the means of her otherworldly balance. Seeing Darian mount his horse as if it were second nature further wounds her pride as she struggles to make out the reins.

"The basics, which you will have to use until you learn more, are simple. Pull the reins, he stops, or slows down. It depends on the gait he is in. Gait being either walk, trot, canter or gallop," Darian explains, grimacing as if afraid to patronize her. She nods, confirming the theory, gleeful when Sam obeys.

"Getting him to move, you point your heels gently to his flanks and follow his rhythm. You sway your hips and follow his strides, using your, er.." At this point, Darian blushes considerably and looks down. Ashlynn is somewhat proud that she has managed to find a way to embarrass a vampire who has been around for centuries.

".. Rear end?" he adds hesitantly and Ashlynn smirks widely at his discomfort. So much that Sam begins to walk, confused at her sudden burst of laughter.

"Using my _buttocks_," she says, stressing the word Britishly, "to press him to walk faster?"

"Exactly," he replies, the discomfort evaporated. He sure bounced back quickly. "Your hands should never be further up than his neck. When that is said, I need to remind you that he is not made of porcelain. He can sense what you want him to do through your body language."

"Great," Ashlynn bits sarcastically, "and if I get nervous?"

To this, Darian does not respond. Cheeky bastard, Ashlynn thinks, using one of her mother's favorite nicknames. She catches that gleam in his eyes, a gleam that is absent from Lucia. In the month-and-a-half she has known them, she has learnt that Lucia is more often than not the one to refrain from society. Darian plays along with the same enthusiasm as if it was a play, ignoring the typical roles of the sexes. Ashlynn supposes their society was much more advanced.

"Darian," she says as they follow a trail, the horses walking rhythmically with loose reins. If it hadn't been to the frilly top, she would have felt like a cowgirl of the Wild West. "How did the vampires live?"

"Extraordinary," Darian says with one breath. "Until the Church came, that is. The vampires ruled, unjust at times, but they were great rulers, and beneath them, art and literature, even technology, blossomed. But as all good things, –."

"–there must come an end," Ashlynn finishes, somewhat saddened by the destruction of the only society she can relate to. She is not human, nor completely abnormal. Vampire is the closest thing to the truth and even that's far stretched.

"I concur. Now we are but hunted and some have relocated to Bhalasaam," he explains grief-stricken.

"Bhala-what?" Ashlynn says, not having recognized the name or the pronunciation.

Darian looks truly surprised. "The city of the vampires. Unknown to mankind. Vampires have sought refuge there, away from the rancorous fire of the human race. Some of us remain, though."

"Why have you and Lucia not skedaddled out of here, then?" Ashlynn asks, finding it hard to believe that Darian would keep fleeing instead of resorting to a safe haven along with the rest of his people. Wherever it is, however great the distance is from England, it cannot be that hard when you're immortal.

"Because then we would every day feel the desperation, the memory of a lost civilization, buried beneath today's reign of humans."

"Wait, 'feel'?" Ashlynn tightens the reins of Sam, letting him grass for a moment. They are at the rear end of the two-horse entourage. She is a little more calm than before but not totally trustful of the horse. Down is far down. He neighs socially.

"Sometimes I forget you have not lived for long," Darian sighs patiently. "Like my dear sister reads minds, I sense emotions. Changes before they happen. That was why I was able to warn Lucia of your arrival. At first, I thought you were another full-blooded vampire, but as Lucia brought you home, I somewhat disappointedly realized that your shrieks of pain were human."

"I knew you disapproved!" Ashlynn says triumphantly at having had him admit to being reluctant to take her in.

"I was," the darker vampire admits fairly. A summer breeze travels to their location and the ears of the horses flicker with anticipation, feeling a rush of energy go through their athletic bodies.

"We must return, if you do not wish to fasten the pace," he says with a mischievous and challenging gaze directed at her.

The Ashley in her shines through and she is hit with momentary bravery (some might call it stupidity, especially her mother), and she returns the challenge. "I can do what you can do, Captain!"

Darian looks confused for a moment, then spurs his horse who leaps into a fast trot before straightening his body in a canter. Ashlynn doesn't even have the time for blinking before her horse follows without hesitation, jerking her violently forward in the English saddle, and for the long neck she is grateful, because it saves her from a messy fall. She recovers quickly, steadying as the pace becomes regular. By the time Sam has reached Mohawk, she has found the natural rhythm of the horse between her legs, leaning forward to feel the muscles moving beneath her in a speed not rivaling her motorbike, but definitely just as dangerous. It is an undeterminable mix between nausea and a feeling of invincibility – the power of freedom, of being able to make choices that can damn her. Butterflies in her stomach and nauseous, she is overwhelmed by the simplicity of the wild ride. Vertigo spins as they slow once the trail narrows. Luckily, her horse slows down when Mohawk does. In the midst of the self-realization, the reins have nearly slipped her grasp.

"Oh no," she says, pale, as they make it to the stables, feeling consciousness slip from her, unable to grab it and hold on; she slides down from the horse, sensing the killer headache and the approaching instinctual – oh no!

It is a desperate thought, not of her own, that invades her before darkness takes her, taking her away from the sickly feeling overwhelming her body. _**Ashlynn! What is happening–**_

* * *

><p><em>Enlightenment. Noun. The action or state of attaining or having attained spiritual knowledge or insight, in particular (in Buddhism) that awareness which frees a person from the cycle of rebirth*.<em>

* referring to Dana Whitcomb and her usage of the word rebirth when talking about Ashley.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are greatly appreciated :D<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I'm sick as hell, so here it is. It's not the way I wanted it to be, but anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Frozen<strong>

**Chapter 4: Pain of the Past**

With a loud thump, she hits the ground like a rag doll and feels as all air is forced out of her lungs. For eternity, she lies still, afraid to hiss out in pain. At the same time, she is numb all over, and something is soaking from her eyes. As she scrapes her palms against the rough surface of whatever she is lying on, she feels the end of her talons scratch along. It does not have a smooth surface like concrete, but a rougher feel like natural caverns. Even though her pupils settle, it is too dark for her to see, which is virtually impossible with the enhanced sight her new DNA structure offers.

She feels her face transcend into a more vampiric visage. Fumbling for something that will determine where she is. Memories are confusing and before she can focus on one, another pops up yet erasing itself before she can pinpoint it. Thousands of impressions overwhelm her but only one remains.

Fire. Flames licking her skin, burning her flesh as she wants to shriek out in pain. Her words and sounds are stuck deep in her throat, buried like a safely locked chamber. Panic rises over her, makes her squirm but all she can comprehend is – _hot, hot, hot – _in a mindless chant. She holds no control of the way her body moves, or the agony that makes her cry out with each hit of her fist banging against the door. The flames take her, chars her real bad, and all she wants to do is crumple down, succumbing to the flames. Tears streak her face, and she wishes for – _mommy, mommy! – _but there is nobody there, nobody stopping her insanely self-destructive behavior. It burns like a flare gun, worse than any bullet she has ever grazed.

She has lost control, and she sees the tragedy unfold before her eyes while she feels the flames lick her face and the numbness of the shadow of herself that is in control. Cabal. She is merely an empty shell without sensation. Except this time, her mind is clear and uninfluenced. This time, she can feel the raw and merciless pain as it pours over her, and memory tells her it will last forever.

Sobbing mentally, she realizes this is not a nightmare, but the pure, uncensored memory of her life. Her _real _life, so to speak. The one that belongs to _Ashley _and not _Ashlynn_. The story of a wild child who was brainwashed. And she is not even the one to suffer the consequences. The constant banging against the glass continues and at some point, she looks at her comrades. Mindless dolls, too. Without impulse, without, well, minds. Enslaved by the very people who Ashley should have protected them from. Enslaved because of _her._

Memories explode in her head. Unorganized images of events young and aged, irrelevant and of utmost importance. She remembers reassuring her mother – with tears in her eyes, she painfully remembers – as she headed out with Henry. The pure shock unto their faces and the make-believe impulse of pleasure upon recognizing their shocked expressions at the borderline warehouse. She steps back, unable to avoid the past from unfolding, choking on air as if she was in the room. Th physical pain of memory is nothing in comparison to the psychological collapse. _Oh my god..._

Feeling as if she is going to hyperventilate and being unable to do anything about it, panic takes her over, locking her down. Putting the painful memories away, storing them in boxes she fears will open on their own accords. Finding little but some strength, she tries to banish those dark memories, pushing them from shore, immediately giving up on using a physical form.

* * *

><p><strong>Country estate<strong>

**Small town outside Canterbury, end of August 1894**

**Residence of the DeGrass family**

The crisp air of the library is easily filtered by her nostrils, but it does manage to give her the slightest headache. The elm trees brush against the house, and as if trying to replicate her current mood, a storm is brewing far away in the horizon. She massages the bridge of her nose, her pupils quickly refocusing as she stares into the burning lodges in the fireplace. The fire cackles, and it should calm her, but tonight it only adds further loads of worry into her mind.

She has refused to sit down, afraid to be conquered by failure. But so far, she has found nothing that will help her young ward. No cure for her instability. For a month she has been able to avoid teleporting, but once triggered, it now seems unable to be controlled. To put it mildly, Lucia feels guilty.

Injecting her blood into the young hybrid – in the lack of a proper and more accurate term – seemed like a good idea at the time. She sensed the presence of alterations due to vampiric blood and figured that the young blonde wouldn't react to further exposure. Lucia was proven wrong by the many seizures that followed, eternally fearing that they would take her ward away from her before the blonde could answer any of her questions. Even with the power of telepathic allowance, Lucia finds it hard to prove correct from mistaken in the littered thoughts of Ashlynn. Or Ashley, as she was called so long ago. Another reason to the migraines.

_**Sister, are you well? **_Darian asks, prying lightly in her thoughts. She almost smiles at the mere thought. Like she does with his thoughts, her twin brother has always been better at sensing her dismay than herself. Often he knows her sensations before they happen. A skill she has often admired but also aware of the burdens it brings. The sufferings of others ever present in the back of his mind.

She tries her best to smoothen the skirt of her dress. It is a simple design of the Bhalasaam temples. It does not carry any resemblance to the dresses of the Victorian era, more a cloth from the Egyptian legends. Having anticipated in some of them, she knows. The wide straps have golden threads sewn into the fabric, following the natural course of her body without the falseness of a corset.

_**I am unsettled by her continuing instability, **_she sends telepathically, holding her gaze to the flames that are merely contained energy. Darian reaches out for her arm in comfort.

_**How is she? **_Darian asks with a soft tone in her mind. For a moment, his concern is overwhelming, a mix of their gifts. He truly cares for Ashlynn now and does no longer think of her as expendable. It is comforting to see him take interest in someone else. Since the death of their father, he has become more detached, only sharing brief glimpses of the horrible times in Bhalasaam. And she must admit, sometimes she is not willing to look.

_**Recovering in her chambers. I fear that her subconscious mind will attempt to teleport again. I have blocked her the best I know, but any medication might trigger unknown side effects. Her mind is a fragile thing. **_Almond-shaped eyes catch the ones of her brother, and Lucia sends him a sisterly glance, then voices her comfort.

"We are not losing her, Darian. I do not know how she came here specifically, but Ashlynn is a refugee as we are," she says softly.

_**Refugees? Is this how you think of us? **_Darian sends, enraged by the thought of her forgiving tone. Infuriation overcomes his face and she does not have to look down at his hands in the wide cuffs to see his knuckles tighten. **_We are exiles, sister, and we will always be! Have you not remembered the sentence of our family's bloodshed? _**

_**Father's decision. Yes, and it is ours to pay the price. But, would you have done it any different? We will be extinct, Darian, I have read it in her mind. **_

His facial expression sobers at the mention of intruding Ashlynn in such a manner. She feels his disbelief and disgust. "You said you would not try to risk her sanity that way."

"It is not intrusion, Darian. Most of the time she barely notice. After today, she will surely be more hesitant, but can you not feel her trust towards us?"

Her twin looks down, as if ashamed. "I sense the insecurity," he says, then faces her, a darkness in his blue eyes that make the vampiress shudder. His voice is raw with emotion, flickering doubt as to his own morals. "What the humans do to us now is malefic, but I feel what Ashlynn has been through. What she no longer wishes to remember. She doesn't have to tell me anything, Lucia, nothing! I sense every pang of guilt hitting her with the memories of how she was forced to endure murdering her friends!"

He stops, as if afraid to speak. He is out of breath from passion, and his gaze falls unto the fire. None of the titles of the books in this library are interesting enough to the two vampires.

"What do you propose we do?" he asks quietly, folding his hands on his back. The shadows that fall upon his face shows how unsettled he is by the condition of Ashlynn.

"We could contact Sarabi. If she does not have a solution, she will not betray our location. I have grown fond of England," Lucia says with the slightest chuckle. She has been many places, always by the side of her twin for the centuries she has lived.

_**You suspect that may have been a situation like Ashlynn's once? Certainly Sarabi will not allow her entrance in Bhalasaam if she knows that she is not pure, **_Darian points out.

_**Brother, you mustn't forget. Sarabi will do just about anything to ensure the survival of the race. Most of the sanguine vampiris of Bhalasaam have fallen victims to the sterilization on the Church. We were lucky to find ourselves in Ukraine at the time, **_Lucia reminds her brother via their shared link. She watches as the memories unfold in their minds, wondering whose memories they truly are. Sometimes they think as one being. Through his thoughts she can often share his ability. Though his thoughts, however, she can also guess the pain.

_**Ashlynn may be the miracle of our race, but her mind is such a fragile thing. Only if she does not learn to control the impulsive teleporting will we resort to such desperate attempts. We need to prepare her first, dear sister.**_

Lucia agrees, nodding. However similar and adapted Ashlynn may seem at times, she has the inner beast of someone who has not been hunted down. Lucia gets the feeling that she has rarely been the hunted, yet somehow managed to be the victim before arriving in London in April.

* * *

><p><strong>Earlier that evening<strong>

**DeGrass Residence**

A flash of red brightens the entire celestial part of the country estate and blinds everything within sight before fading to a transparent hue. Seeing as it is in the middle of the night, it awakes the animals, but the two residents are already awake as if awaiting this. They have, both Miss Mona DeGrass and her twin brother, but it has been a long time coming. Since then, leafs have fallen from the trees, creating a mosaic path of leafs of all hues of green, brown and yellow, some even red. The elm trees stand naked and the cold wind blows threateningly, sensing the change in the atmosphere.

_**Lucia! Did you feel that? **_The oldest twin calls out, semi-dressed and jerking out of his private quarters. He is referring to the instinctual gift he has, sensing moods and changes mere moments before they occur. His hope is relit, burning brightly in the night, but also dim in comparison to previous events; he is afraid to be disappointed again.

_**Darian, you mustn't–, **_his sister sends, her tone patient, then halts when she sees the silhouette of a being lying in the corridor between their chambers. Her brother pries needlessly, then sees it through her eyes and race to her side.

"Ashlynn, Ashlynn," Darian calls out, this time by voice as Lucia tries to establish if Ashlynn has any wounds this time. The first time, she described the terrible, shard-like pain. The second time, she wrote it off, followed by an impulsive teleportation that occurred months ago. This is the first they see of the ward. Carefully, the female vampire probes her mind, finding a defense mechanism that locks her out immediately as if the body reacted to a tender area.

Startled, Lucia backs off, resorting to the medical training of physiology she knows by now. While she has never tended to humans for long, despite the similar physiologies, she knows that Ashlynn is as much vampire as human. An awkwardly balanced – for perfect it is not – mix of the homo sapiens (which is truly ironic, for the humans to consider themselves superior in intellectual measurements!) and the _sanguine vampiris_. Even though she has only been exposed to treatments of blood and medical stimulating agents prompting her DNA to alter itself in a deeply embedded genetic code, her body still reacts somewhat as a vampire's.

Which is to be taken into consideration, along with the fact that she heals with the vampiric ingenuity and rapidness, when the dark-haired twin examines her. This time, she is illy quiet, coming to her senses very drowsily.

Her voice is barely audible, but when her dry lips break apart, their perfect sense of hearing pick up the otherwise lost words. "Fire," she repeats, fainting. She is curled up in a fetal position, her clothes the exact ones she wore that dreadful afternoon nearly two months ago. If Lucia's calculations are right, it will mean that while it has been two months to them, to Ashlynn it cannot have been more than a blink of an eye.

_**I sense pain. **_Darian's voice is laced with uncertainty and she can see his mental frown like he is picking up on something he does not understand. _**Not physical, nor emotional. I apologize I cannot elaborate, but she is perfectly healthy. In fact, I require your services.**_

_**She has shut me off. Closed her mind, **_Lucia informs her brother, supporting Ashlynn's neck as she scoops her up. She trusts her brother's information about Ashlynn's health, but nevertheless she cannot be too careful.

_**Then indeed we have underestimated her**_, Darian responds, following in tow.

_**No, she has simply learnt how to in these months she has been gone. Although I suspect it is far less to her. **_

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Darian goes to fetch towels and a bowl of water. Lucia agrees; Ashlynn looks nearly feverish and is hot to the touch. After putting her down on the made bed with the clean linens, she checks pulse and temperature, revealing the facts. Removing the clothes necessary, and making sure Darian is on the closed-off end of their telepathic link, the telepath is certain that Ashlynn is improving. Later Darian will have to explain what exactly her prompt teleportation felt like, and she will have to note in down, like she has done before in Ashlynn's case, but she considers a triggered memory part of the reason.

Watching the body repair the damage is natural, and by the time Darian returns, their blonde ward is awakening, covered by a chemise and the sheets.

"Lucia," Ashlynn says, then sees the empath by her side. "Darian." She swallows deeply, drinking slowly of the acquired water before continuing. Her eyes zoom in on the length of Lucia's hair, now down. "Your hair.. it's grown longer.. How long has it been?"

With wide eyes the color of an electric blue hue, the hybrid looks innocently charming. She is striking in her own way, though for now she remains distressed. Her hair, blonde and curly in a way that can only be called royal, is almost grown accustomed. When she arrived, Lucia had to explain modern hairstyling. Her bangs, cut just above her eyebrows, were fairly uncooperative, but by the time they relocated to the country estate, manageable. Now, she belongs in the era.

"It's August. 1894," Darian quickly adds.

Ashlynn groans very un-lady-like. "Not again! I thought I was done time-porting!"

"It seemed your intentional attempt at teleporting that afternoon triggered the memory of teleportation, although I cannot be sure. How long has it been, to you?" Lucia asks, curious as to where she came from – the haunted eyes tell a story.

"I dunno. A few hours?" Ashlynn estimates, then grabs the reeling of the bed for balance. "Whoa, still dizzy," she declares, paling.

"We'll leave for now. I'll be by the door if you need me," Lucia promises, then ushers her brother out of the room, feeling the need for privacy.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: **

Basically, Ashlynn teleported to her own mind, remembering the incident with the fire elemental at the UK Sanctuary. She was gone from the beginning of July 1894 and appeared in the end of August the same year.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Just to show time has passed. Why do I keep making Ashlynn ill? Whatever, traces resurface in this, which will lead to an _interesting _next chapter, where Ashley confronts Ashlynn. Or, whatever. Anyway.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for Darian, Lucia and Wesley Kingston. Sanctuary belongs to the respective owners.

* * *

><p><strong>Frozen<strong>

**Chapter 5: Do You Remember?**

"Miss Wellington! Miss Wellington!" the young boy shouts as he runs through the crowd on the streets, zig-zagging between women carrying baskets with food and other peasants doing their everyday errands. Peasants, Ashlynn muses, God I must be damaged by this.

"Yes, what is it?" she asks, putting on an accent. These days it is not difficult, but it is more distinguishable now where they reside somewhat isolated.

It is mid-September and she is in town for the marked. Lucia and Darian are visiting their friends respectively, so she has a few hours for herself. She is window-shopping the stands, feeling the fabrics for dresses. She has made an appointment this afternoon for her seamstress (recommended by Lucia, of course) but it doesn't mean she doesn't approve of these amazing colors. She has given up on keeping up with the color scheme, allowing Lucia to do that. God, she just wishes for a simple outfit, of leather preferably, and a motorbike. Hell, she longs for it.

"I was sent to give you this," the dirty-faced boy says, handing her a unopened letter. His hair is long, in need of cutting, but he has that mischievous boyish charm that works wonders with most girls her age. Women, she corrects herself.

"Thank-you, but how did you know it was me you sought?" she asks, her eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar penmanship. It is indeed addressed to her, at least the name she has taken upon her arrival, _Ashlynn Wellington. _There is no sender or return address.

The boy blushes, flashing another one of his boyish smiles. Oh, how she envies him the freedom to do that. "I was told to look for the prettiest of all, Miss Wellington."

He skedaddles out of there, disappearing into the crowd before she can stop him, seemingly embarrassed. Ashlynn makes her way to a more private area before reading the note. Whom may it be? Aside from the twins, she knows nobody. Well, technically, she knows her mother, but the Helen Magnus of this time, although in close proximity, barely a day's ride away, could stare into her eyes for hours without piecing together the truth. Sad but true.

_Miss Wellington –_

_I am delighted to see you in town again, although I am certain I have nothing to do with it. I simply found your company quite lovely and was saddened by your departure. Hopefully, you will give me the pleasure of accompanying me for a meal at a friend of mine's establishment at Main Street at noon._

–_Wesley Kingston_

Once she recognizes the words, she pieces it together with the sandy-haired gentleman that was her escort the day of the abrupt leave from this very town. Many things have changed since, she notes, recalling her very temperamental outburst of self-righteousness less than a month ago. It was after she had timeported once again; this time with fewer repercussions. Less pain also, but grander confusion. She has barely gotten used to being in the company of the twins, the empath and the telepath. With them, it seems like there are always more pages to turn, more information to be revealed that changes the situation dramatically. Being out of their vicinity allows her to think back at the present; which is now the future. She misses the 2000s like crazy. Even then, she has grown accustomed to 1894 and its setting. She has proven to be an excellent equestrian once she stopped teleporting next to the horse. Darian has even mentioned wanted to buy Ashlynn her own horse. While Sam makes a great teacher, he rarely has the rapidness of necking Mohawk – Ashlynn's ultimate goal.

Lucia joins her on the trail rides when Darian is unable to. She looks like a combatant in the saddle, stoic and remaining in perfect control. When she does that, she reminds Ashlynn of Helen, although Lucia knows her own limitations and that of the world. During her lifetime, it has mostly been Ashlynn's job to remind her mother of the danger she invited into their home. Of the likeliness of one of the Abnormals not remaining docile despite being reported so.

* * *

><p>Wesley Kingston seems to have matured during the summer. His chartreuse green eyes still remain innocent and intelligent, but there is something changed about him. Perhaps he has gained some weight – muscle. His sandy hair is combed back, his clothes clean and neat, yet he does not possess that handsome charm that Darian has whatever he is wearing. Ashlynn reminds herself that they are not even in the same species category, and immediately feels bad comparing Wesley to the vampiric empath.<p>

"Oh, miss Ashlynn! Wonderful to see you come! I must say, you look marvelous," the gentleman compliments. This time, Ashlynn is better prepared.

"Mr. Kingston, I agree. It has been too long." He gestures for her to sit down, even pulling the chair out for her. As awkward as her mind tells her it is, she politely plays along to the indulgence. She makes sure to smoothen her skirt before sitting down, an act she has finally gotten together after three months in the Victorian England.

"When I heard you had left town with the DeGrasses, I was disheartened by the fact I would not converse with you again. I did enjoy our afternoon walk," Wesley points out, his seriously green eyes begging like a puppy's.

"Oh," Ashlynn says.

"So when I saw you today, I was delighted. Pardon my frankness, but I saw the opportunity to see you again," he trails off.

"Well, I have been recuperating in the countryside. Certain.. parties were making me ill. I am better now," she insists when she sees his worried facial expression. Most of September she hasn't even been able to walk around for more than a few hours. Lucia is seeking desperate measures for her prompt teleportations. Personally, she thinks she is getting a hang of it. She has not ended up in any relapsing memories, and nightmares remain in her mind. Although the side effects are lessening if she focuses on a specific destination – and time – when she feels it pulling.

"Of course. The air is fresher there, I suppose. However, I would feel honored for us to remain _copains,_ as the French say."

_Copains _is not a word in Ashlynn's vocabulary, despite she remembers learning French. Her mind travels elsewhere for a moment, back to when she was thirteen and insisted upon being a stereotypical teenage girl. Her linguistic training is vague, but she remembers being in school – protesting to go, yet also convincing her mother to go to a public school.

He recognizes her frown. "Friends; through penmanship, miss Ashlynn. Although I would be immensely pleased to see you, I doubt my travels allow for many visits, despite your intriguing company."

"I.. would like that," she admits, knowing fully how difficult and impossible it would be to convince Darian and Lucia to allow Wesley entrance. What she doesn't understand is how he picked up on it. Is she that reluctant to let him in? He reminds her of Henry in that way; she clearly underestimated him firsthand, so now he surprises her. He seems like a good ally, influential in a way only knowledge can get you.

Plus, she misses her contacts. Hell, she has not seen one Abnormal since she tried to kill off the Sanctuary Network. Even with the thought that she may never get back, having at some point acknowledged the possibility, she likes to think that she will, somehow, mark the time with some footprint of hers so she will not be forgotten – or remembered as a traitor.

After talking with Wesley for nearly an hour, they depart the small establishment. She far too late realizes she is late for her appointment with the seamstress. Lucia will be very dismayed if she cancels it, so she hurries off.

* * *

><p><strong>Small, unneeded Author's note: The town part shows less than a month has passed since she came back.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I have been waiting with anticipation to write this chapter since, like, the second one. I realized I needed to get down to the original summary and I couldn't do that while Ashley pretended to be Ashlynn and accepted she was stuck. Also, this will prompt information from the twins that will be imminent to bringing Helen and Ashley back. I'm afraid it will have to take some time, though, as it is 1894, and Helen arrives in 1898, and I have used all my time-portations for now.**

**Songs I listened to for inspirations:**

**Shinedown - Burning Bright**

**Red - Shadows**

* * *

><p><strong>Frozen<strong>

**Chapter 6: Outburst, Breakdown and Outbreak**

_October 1894, England_

The overwhelming desire to break free from all she has come to know it, well, overwhelms her. She can't hold it back, and stripping off all unneeded clothes, dressed in the clothes of a young page, she begins to run. She sprints till the wind has frozen her face and till her tears are no longer recognizable. It takes her some time to reach town, but she does not stop or slow down. Her new stamina offers comfort and support when all she seeks is the feeling of defeat. At least that is familiar. So far, she has only been kept from what she knows.

Rage grows in her, burning brightly like fire. She doesn't know where it comes from. Buried frustration, yeah, and the defeatist within that has been struggling to overcome the truth. That she's stuck in 18-_freaking_-94 with no escape. All she has are memories of her own destructiveness. What the Cabal turned her into. A destroyer of her own kind. The destroyer of everything her mother fought to build and protect.

Worst of all, some little part of her, deeply buried, only recognized afterwards, actually agreed with doing that. Her mother has always been a firm believer of the innocence of the Abnormals. That everything they did, they did out of survival. Selfless creatures only thinking of living on. Ashlynn did not agree, has always been the one to warn her mother and be the skeptic. Now she has lived the life of a fugitive, an Abnormal – although the _sanguine vampiris_ do not acknowledge the parallels – she understands that no life is selfless. Modest, perhaps, some even noble. However, some act on murderous impulses because they can. Because they feel superior, and it has nothing to do with the excuse of being an Abnormal. Does it empower you to be different? Does it make it just? Ashlynn doesn't know, and it's killing her. Softly, slowly, painfully. Definitely.

She wants to scream and shriek in pain like a banshee, but she knows it will not help. She is forever alone in her special situation, nobody able to tell her how to cope with reality. Although the twins have done their part and helped her immensely, she can't expect them to fully understand. Have they turned their backs on their family and allowed themselves to be a weapon? No is the answer. No is the goddamn answer.

She can't be Ashlynn Wellington, even if she wants to. Despite her best efforts to behave calmly and composed, an inner rage and passion burn inside her labeled Ashley Magnus. She wishes to turn her back on the twenty-first century, but knowing that she has no choice makes her rebellious in doing just that. The final question remains.

Who is she?

Before Cabal, she wouldn't have hesitated to call herself the daughter of Helen Magnus, philanthropist extraordinaire, but now she no longer possesses the recklessness that previously defined her. She is still Ashley; with her weapon-savvy attitude, youthful arrogance, kick-ass combat abilities, martial arts training and cockiness, who else would she be? In hindsight, she was the overconfident, wild heir to the Sanctuary Network.

Now, she is a confused not-so human. She doubts she is even human anymore; she always had a vague idea that she may be different, due to her mother experiencing with source blood early during her life span. After all, isn't that what made her attractive to the Cabal? Daughter of two source blood-altered persons. Her mother's longevity and her father's ability to teleport, both remarkable in themselves. She has always known that her mother may well outlive her. It has been a silent fact between them since her sixteenth birthday. She had never really thought about her parentage before John Druitt came back, always assumed that her father had been human, one of Helen Magnus' countless loves. Not to make her mother sound like a prostitute, but in her 157 years, she'd had lovers.

Truth resurfacing in brutal honesty makes her dizzy, but she keeps on going, not sure what he goal is. Not sure if what she is looking for is findable. Some part of her wishes that she had vaporized in the electromagnetic shield with the other subject. God, sometimes she has nightmares about it, about the cold looks, the onyx orbs of her companion and fellow destroyer where she can see her own reflection. It seems so silly but she can't even remember the name of the doomed life. And it makes her feels terrible.

What is she? Honestly, truly, what kind of cause does she represent? She is not Ashley, she isn't Ashlynn. She is certainly no Helen Magnus. Her mother would've handled this better, come up with a plan to avoid the hollowness, the despair that is coursing through her veins now.

Bitter and unanswered, she reaches town. Filled by anger, she is not fully aware how much is due to running or how much she teleports. She doesn't give her body time to be phased by it, her body adjusting to the pain and the inner anger that is burning like a flame in the rain. She sprints, teleporting as she does so, reappearing in a sprint that is as purposeful as it is hopeless. She sticks to the shadows, though, not wanting to be caught. Tears sprawl her cheeks like a broken mosaic picture. The only thing that she keeps clear in her mind is the fading memory of her mother, the great Helen Magnus. The fearless, stoic, compassionate, unstoppable force of all-good that represents the Sanctuaries.

For months she has kept this charade going. Knowing she is holding on to a lost cause. Suffering in silence. Pretending to be somebody she is not. And if she isn't her mother, is she then John Druitt's daughter?

London is dark by the time she arrives. Heavy-breathed and heartbroken, she wanders the soaked streets and dark alleys of the capital, wondering why she is even here. With her guards down, she can easily feel that Lucia's mental probings are absent. She must be out of range, she decides, seeking shelter from the cruel rain that splashes down on her. She doubts the medicine of this era is any comfort, so she starts to follow her instinct, realizing how little she now recognizes. And soon, she feels something tugging at her conscience. Gentle prod, then a more persistent shove.

She tracks the feeling down in her mind, and surprisingly, it leads her to a place in the physical world. Frowning at the lonesome alley, she is about to leave when a bright, orangish flash crosses the air, awaiting the re-materialization of a teleporter. She stands there, half guised by a pile of wood for a renovation, paralyzed in fear of what is unfolding.

A younger version – that much is certain, because he has still hair – of John Druitt – this era's John Druitt, she assumes – leans over a silhouette. Ashley has seen enough horror to recognize the silhouette of a young, scantily dressed woman. A prostitute. Dead for certain, awaiting to be discarded of. Once again she is reminded that genetics are a bitch, and that she comes from if not two, then one ruthless being. Ignorance was bliss for a while.

Oh, and she wants to break free of her hold, to confront him, but terror and something else holds her back. Who is she to judge? After all, altering the timeline would damage her world severely. However, maybe just right, to bring everything back to how it was before the Cabal. While she is not so naïve to think she can live a happily ever after with the three as a family – and she is certainly sated with Henry and Biggie being her family members – she recognizes the urge to visualize a Druitt-Magnus household. A normal family. But being what she is – and being what and who they are – it is impossible.

So she watches the life sweep out of the young girl who cannot be older than her. Some facts remain the same, even a hundred years later. Girls offering themselves, struggling with financial dependability and end up dead in a street somewhere, unnoticed by the living remainders. It is a crack in human foundation, but none she can solve. That's her. One problem at a time.

Rashly, and angered by the frankness of the world, she lashes out at him from the shadows, enabling her to use his surprise to her advantage. Furious, her blows strike hard and fiercely, and she returns all defenses he uses, her presence astounding him nevertheless. Her reaction doesn't belong to the women of this era, but she cannot think clearly right now, and the pain is pleasantly numbing. And so, John Druitt fights back with an equal madness, his only disadvantage that he doesn't know what she is (which she barely does herself) or who she is, and when she scarcely ducks, it is because of her memories of his fighting style.

He is a good fighter, skilled, but driven with madness, which is exactly what she knows and makes him unpredictable. He is lost, looking for an excuse to fight, and she realizes his condition mirrors her own. Blind despair, losing one's mind. No-one to tell them how to act. An inner hatred, undefinable. The realization startles her, makes her slip from the dance of the fight, creating an opportunity for Druitt to push a razor blade against her throat.

"Now, who are you?" he asks darkly, the voice of someone who has nothing to live for. Yet she knows he will; if not for the naïve belief that he might get Helen back.

"What, Batgirl not good enough for ya?" Slipping back into the comfort of sarcasm, she struggles against his hold, trying to figure out if slicing her throat will kill her. After all she has been through, her new healing abilities might be up for the task.

His confusion becomes her escape. He lets go, temporarily, and it's enough for her to teleport, although she has a hard time finding refuge. All she wants to do is feel safe, feel like she belongs –.

The next thing she knows, she is standing, soaked wet, in the middle of the familiar quarters of the country estate. She dares not to move, afraid that he'll follow her. Fear. Afraid. Yes, her father is to be feared and now she knows that all that keeps him from maiming innocents are bonds. Which is why the Five lived to remain. Connections, it's all about connections. When she establishes that he is not going to appear in a whirl of orange, she sighs, feeling her legs shake. She looks around and gathers enough information that this is Darian's room, which is not as embarrassing as it sounds. His door is usually agape most of the time, leaving room for her to have snuck in a few times. For the sake of curiosity.

"Ashlynn?"

She spins around, startled even though she recognizes Darian's soothing voice. He looks puzzled, but then again – she is getting water and rain all over his floor. "I – I ran."

"Whereto?" he asks absentmindedly, as he beckons for Lucia in his mind, walking towards her, grabbing a sheet from the bed. Totally calm the whole time. He throws the sheet over her shoulders, enveloping her in it. She only then notices how close they are. She can hear his breath echo off her chest, feel the heat ebbing from him. And she is a fool to deny that it is comforting.

"L-London," she admits, answering a question he asked for her sake. She can feel shivering all over, sensing the wetness and the resulting freeze.

"And why would you go to London?" he continues, quite casually as if she wasn't standing here, in his room, soaked wet by rain, a day's travel from her said destination. He also examines her subtly, checking her sight and trying to warm her freezing body without causing too much improperness.

"To find answers," she says bluntly, a little too loud. He looks at her, and she really looks into his blueberry orbs. They're so familiar, so able to get lost in. She is not tense in his arms, not unpleasant. She tells herself it's like hugging Henry, but it's not. Darian is so.. Darian. It sounds cheesy, but she has never met anyone like him. Nor will she ever, given that he is a vampire.

"Did you find them?" she asks as Lucia steps into the room, fresh and clean and dry clothes with her. She frowns dismayed at the sight, but doesn't question why they're standing so close, Darian wearing only a cotton shirt, although Ashley can imagine the load of all reprimands she is giving Darian telepathically. It is always fun to watch, because they slip into these masks of distance whenever they communicate, even if they are conversing at the same time.

"I found me." Clearing her throat and trying not to shiver, she corrects herself. "Or, not me. I clashed with my father. I apologize if I worried you. I just,.. needed to get out of here. Of Ashlynn Wellington."

"A path of self-realization," Lucia offers, as if it explains everything. After contemplating the idea, she nods.

"My name is Ashley. It's me, even this new me. I can't pretend I'm something I'm not. Not when you know me like you do," Ashley says, her eyes on both twins.

They exchange gazes, so intense that Ashley knows they're sharing thoughts. Opening her mind to the possibility, she sees Lucia's surprise when she is able.

_**Ashley it is then. I hoped you would adapt better into this time. That you wouldn't allow your futuristic past to intervene. **_She looks guilty. **_I realize that was wrong. I am sorry._**

What strikes Ashley as odd is that, without the movements of the muscles around the mouth, you have to look into the eyes of the telepath. It seems so intense. She tries to formulate a sentence in her mind. _**Why am I not hearing Darian?**_

Lucia looks at her brother for a moment, then sees Darian smirk. "I'm not telepathic, Ashl..ley. As I've told you before. I focus on a more.. emotional response."

Ashley opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off by a worrying Lucia, who insists on getting her a hot bath and redressed before further discussion. Relentlessly, Ashley follows, feeling weird being escorted out of Darian's room.

* * *

><p>Ashley is almost certain that Lucia dropped something into her bathwater, because she feels so out of synch when she tries to think. From her seat in the bath tub, she tries to reach out to Lucia telepathically. Funny thing is, she succeeds. She remembers being telepathic before, having some connection to the other Cabal subjects. But never willingly.<p>

_**Are you dosing me, Lu? **_It seems so childish and out-of-era to say it, but Lucia catches her drift.

_**I ensure you that I have given you no medication. Although I may have added some passiflora as muscle relaxant**_, Lucia adds guilty and rather mischievously.

_**Lucia! **_Truthfully, Ashley can't even blame her near-sister. Yes, she has grown to care for Lucia like a sister these days, although she might be too unbiased to categorize their relationship. She has never had a sister, and even her relationship to Henry is rather.. weird.

_**I am worried. The fact that you've recklessly teleported yourself, constantly I may add, to London will supercharge your molecules. Your kinetic energy alone..!**_

Even in her mind, Lu manages to make her feel guilty about her instincts. _**It was bound to happen. You'd known that**__, _she declares, stepping out of the tub and dries herself, toweling her hair.

_**You're referring to when you arrived here and I gave you another name.**_

Ashley doesn't even have to form the sentence before Lucia senses her sarcastic 'yeah'. Feeling suddenly intruded, she dresses while she listens to Lucia. The fact that she is not completely weirded out by her lack of physical presence says something, Ashley just isn't sure what. _**Already then I saw that you were from another time. I hoped that if you focused on being Ashlynn, you'd be better to create another you. It was only later I realized the benefits.**_

_**Benefits?**_

_**Not everyone's mother is blessed with longevity.**_ Ashley bursts into a coughing fit even though she has had nothing to drink. Well, who says frankness has died? **_Of course, coming from a vampire, that may sound wrong._**

In the months she has been in 1894, she has learnt to dress properly. She still misses the fewer layers and more risque clothes, but she can dress herself. The undergarments are quickly applied, followed by the stockings and petticoat. A loose corsage works wonders and the dress itself is a beautifully woven fabric, soft and silky in a color that reminds her of the chartreuse green eyes of Wesley Kingston. It has a golden chain-link patterned embroidery on the shoulders and lacy white front and at the sleeves. Slightly puffy, but manageable sleeves, she may add. Underneath the lacy front is white silk covering her corsage.

_**What benefit did my mom being blessed with longevity give the name?**_

_**If you were to meet her, or she an Ashley, it would perhaps alter something in your time**_**, **the telepath says softly. There's a knock on the door. _**You done?**_

"Come in," Ashley beckons, smoothening the dress.

"We're meeting in the lounge," Lucia informs her, and for some reason, it's amusing. There is an indefinable difference between her voice during the telepathic communication and the more common, verbal one. Like her voice is softer, somehow.

_**It's because you're very intuitive. You already know what I am about to say in your mind**_, the female vampire muses, teasing her with a smile that is slightly riskier than this era allows.

"Whatever. I've been telepathic before. It wasn't like this," she says, gesturing between the two.

"Every case is unique, I guess," Lucia replies, shoving her curiosity aside. Like her mother before her, the brunette beauty is focused on medical evolution. Had the need to hide from society not been so imminent, Ashley is certain that the blue-eyed woman would have been evolutionary in her quest for scientific and medical studies. Also, she is kind and gentle, despite having Darian for a brother.

"He is not that bad," Lucia points out, not purely defensive, but prompting Ashley to block her out of her mind. She isn't used to the invasiveness of telepathy. It makes separating her thoughts from Lucia's messages harder.

Seconds later, they enter the lounge. It is a comfortable room, isolated by choice with deep maroon velvet curtains and a fascinating tile pattern that she hasn't quite figured out yet. Dark swirls continue through each tile like an infinite pattern that continues underneath the wall with its noir décor. Ashley thinks that, during the night, where its only source of light comes from the soft glows from the gas lamps and candlelights, there is a reason it's called the Dark Ages. Like anywhere, bookcases have been plunged against the walls, each leather-bound book carefully placed and stacked. Their backs varies in color and size and even shape, but glooms in the background, a nearly eternal source of entertainment. Ashley wouldn't known; reading has never been her thing. Unless, of course, it was an instruction manual on _jiu jitsu_. Even then, a few pages could be skipped.

The armchairs are a rich but fading green like the ash leafs during springtime. Worn over time but used nevertheless, leaving deep marks in the Persian rugs. It has a certain London feeling to it. Darian, shadowed by the northernmost bookcase, is sitting darkly in the corner, but rises almost inhumanly fast and graceful from the chair once he sees them enter. His eyes rest on Ashley, as if his sister is a known phenomenon and she isn't. He has thrown a leather vest over the shirt, not liking formality as much as his sister. The flames from the candlelights illuminate the room scarcely, casting light and shadows respectively unto the vertically striped wallpaper and the paintings, breathing lives into the motif. Meaningless decoration, Ashley muses. Beside the armchair, on the small table that looks suspiciously familiar and oddly out-of-era, is a book, opened, its bindings curved. She wonders if he was reading. The characters are not roman, she notes, somewhat disappointed.

Behind her, Lucia sighs, as if beginning an unprepared speech. "I suppose we better get to it, Ashley."

"Get to what?" If question mark was an expression, Ashley would be it.

"We have tried to contact the stronghold of the sanguine vampiris," Darian admits, continuing where his twin sister trailed off. They do that a lot; conversing as if a synchronized mind. Maybe they are, sharing a telepathic link. Sometimes, however, it's unnerving. Now, she is almost used to it, although it feels like watching a tennis match.

"The city of Bhalasaam is the refuge for our race. The last city of our kindred," he reveals, stroking the back of the furnished sofa.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we plan to take you to it," Darian says bluntly. Lucia, more careful in nature, corrects his words almost instantly.

"I have tried to.." She looks at her brother for help.

"Fix me?" Ashley supplies with a quirked brow.

Lucia's shoulders sag, as she declares defeat in using proper language. "I just can't," she admits. "I've tried stabilizing, and some of it works, but I'm afraid that it is only temporary. If someone does not teach you.." she trails off, but the concerned expression on her face is ominous enough.

"But it's going well. I didn't have anyone to teach me before," she points out, too late realizing her mistake to bring up the time at the Cabal.

"Last time," she pauses, "you were almost programmed. No place for doubt whereas now, any doubt of destination could kill you. And I am not qualified to begin to study teleportation on a molecular level. Your pains," Lucia explains.

"Is there someone in Bala-whatever-"

"Bhalasaam," the twins say in unison.

" –yes, that, who can help me?"

The twins exchange wicked gazes, like they're in on a secret she is not. In fact, they seem to enjoy the exponential tension too much, like they're dying – _alright, inside joke_ – to say. "Actually, we know just the person. However –-"

"It would be foolish to blindly walk into Bhalasaam," Darian says, and at that moment, they remind her too much of the Alice in Wonderland version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Much better looking, of course, being vampires. Finishing each other's sentences.

"The situation is delicate," Lucia patiently explains. "And our communication was answered this evening. Unfortunately, traveling there will take months, and not in the winter."

"Can't I just – y'know, teleport?"

Lucia looks at her, like she would look at a child. Ashley can't see why her suggestion is that far out. She raises her hand, indicating her and Darian. "With passengers? No. And, despite the way you so foolishly came to London tonight, Bhalasaam won't be as easy to enter," she almost snickers, then abruptly leaves the room.

Ashley is left, mouth agape, wondering what she has done wrong.


End file.
